The Magician Read online

  When he left the bedroom, he stopped at the door to his sister’s room and looked inside. The smell of lavender was so strong it made his eyes water. Sophie lay unmoving on the bed, her breathing regular and even. Joan remained beside her, holding her hand, murmuring softly, but not in any language he could understand. The woman turned her head slowly to look at him, and he discovered that her eyes were once again flat silver discs, without any hint of white or pupil. She turned back to Sophie.

  Josh stared at them for a moment before turning away. When the Witch of Endor had instructed Sophie in the Magic of Air, he had been dismissed; now he’d been dismissed again. He was quickly realizing that in this new magical world, there was no place for someone like him, someone without power.

  Josh slowly climbed the narrow winding stairs that led up to Saint-Germain’s office. Whatever Josh had been expecting to find in the attic, it was not the huge brightly lit white wood and chrome room. The attic ran the length of the entire house and had been remodeled into one vast open space, with an arched window looking over the Champs-Elysées at one end. The enormous room was filled with electronics and musical instruments, but there was no sign of Saint-Germain.

  Against the right wall, a long table stretched from one end of the space to the other. It was piled high with computers, both desktops and laptops, screens of all shapes and sizes, synthesizers, a mixing desk, keyboards and electronic drum kits.

  On the opposite side of the room a trio of electric guitars were perched on stands, while an assortment of keyboards were arranged around an enormous LCD screen.

  “How do you feel?” Saint-Germain asked.

  It took Josh a second to identify where the voice was coming from. The musician was lying flat on his back under the table, a bundle of USB cables in his hands. “Good,” Josh said, and was surprised to find that it was true. He felt better than he had in a long time. “I don’t even remember lying down….”

  “You were both exhausted, physically and mentally. And I understand the leygates suck every last drop of energy from you. Not that I’ve ever traveled through one,” he added. “To be truthful, I was surprised you were still on your feet,” Saint-Germain muttered as he dropped the cables. “You’ve slept for about fourteen hours.”

  Josh knelt alongside Saint-Germain. “What are you trying to do?”

  “I moved a monitor and the cable fell out; I’m not sure which one it is.”

  “You should color code them with tape,” Josh said. “That’s what I do.” Straightening, he caught the end of the cable that was attached to the wide-screen monitor and jerked it up and down. “It’s this one.” The cable twitched in Saint-Germain’s hands.

  “Thanks!”

  The monitor suddenly flickered to life, displaying a screen filled with sliders and knobs.

  Saint-Germain climbed to his feet and dusted himself off. He was wearing clothes identical to Josh’s. “They fit.” He nodded. “And they look good on you. You should wear black more often.”

  “Thanks for the clothes….” He stopped. “I don’t know how we’re going to be able to pay you back, though.”

  Francis laughed quickly. “They weren’t a loan, they were a gift. I don’t want them back.”

  Before Josh could thank him again, Saint-Germain hit the keyboard and Josh jumped as a series of heavy piano chords thumped out from hidden speakers. “Don’t worry, the attic is soundproofed,” Saint-Germain said. “It’ll not wake Sophie.”

  Josh nodded at the screen. “Do you write all your music on computer?”

  “Just about.” Saint-Germain looked around the room. “Anyone can make music now; you don’t need much more than a computer, some software, patience and a lot of imagination. If I need some real instruments for a final mix, I’ll hire musicians. But I can do most things here.”

  “I downloaded some beat-detection software once,” Josh admitted. “But I could never get it right.”

  “What do you compose?”

  “Well, I’m not sure you’d call it composing…. I put together some ambient mixes.”

  “I’d love to listen to anything you have.”

  “It’s all gone. I lost my computer, my cell phone and my iPod when Yggdrasill was destroyed.” Even saying it aloud made him feel sick. And the worst part was that he really had no idea exactly what he’d lost. “I lost my summer project and all my music, and that was about ninety gigs. I had some great bootlegs. I’ll never be able to replace them.” He sighed. “I also lost hundreds of photos; all the places Mom and Dad took us. Our parents are scientists—they’re archaeologists and paleontologists,” he added, “so we’ve seen some amazing places.”

  “Lost everything! That’s got to be tough,” Saint-Germain sympathized. “What about backups?”

  The stricken look on Josh’s face was all the answer the count needed.

  “Were you a Mac or a PC user?”

  “Both, actually. Dad uses PCs at home, but most of the schools Sophie and I have gone to use Macs. Sophie loves her Macs, but I prefer a PC,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I can usually pull it apart and fix it myself.”

  Saint-Germain walked to the end of the table and rummaged around underneath it. He pulled out three laptops, different brands and screen sizes, and lined them up on the floor. He gestured dramatically. “Take one.”

  Josh blinked at him in surprise. “Take one?”

  “They’re all PCs,” Saint-Germain continued, “and they’re no use to me. I’ve completely switched over to Macs now.”

  Josh looked from Saint-Germain to the laptops and back to the musician again. He’d just met this man, didn’t know him, and here he was offering Josh a choice of three expensive laptops. He shook his head. “Thanks, but I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Saint-Germain demanded.

  And Josh had no answer for that.

  “You need a computer. I’m offering you one of these. I would be pleased if you took it.” Saint-Germain smiled. “I grew up in an age when gift giving was an art. I have found that people in this century really do not know how to accept a gift gracefully.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about thank you?” Saint-Germain suggested.

  Josh grinned. “Yes. Well…thank you,” he said hesitantly. “Thank you very much.” Even as he was speaking, he knew which machine he wanted: the tiny one-inch-thick laptop with an eleven-inch screen.

  Saint-Germain dug around under the table and extracted three power cords that he dropped onto the floor alongside the machines. “I’m not using them. They’ll probably never be used again. I’ll end up reformatting the hard drives and giving the machines to the local schools. Take whichever one you like. You’ll find a backpack under the table too.” He paused, blue eyes twinkling, and tapped the back of the machine Josh was looking at, then added with a grin, “I’ve a spare long-life battery for this one. That was my favorite.”

  “Well, if you’re really not using them…”

  Saint-Germain ran a finger across the back of the small laptop, tracing a line in the dust, holding it up so that Josh could see the black mark on his fingertip. “Trust me: I’m not using them.”

  “OK…thanks. I mean, thank you. No one’s ever given me a present like this before,” he said, picking up the small computer and turning it over in his hands. “I’ll take this one…if you’re really sure….”

  “I’m sure. It’s fully loaded; got wireless, too, and it’ll autoconvert the power for European and American current. Plus, it’s got all my albums on it,” Saint-Germain said, “so you can start your music collection again. You’ll also find an mpeg of the last concert. Check it out; it’s really good.”

  “I’ll do that,” Josh said, plugging in the laptop to charge the battery.

  “Let me know what you think. And you can be honest with me,” Saint-Germain added.

  “Really?”

  The count took a moment to consider, and then he shook his head. “No, not really. Only tell me if
you think I’m good. I don’t like negative reviews, though you’d think that after nearly three hundred years, I’d be used to them.”

  Josh opened the laptop and turned it on. The machine whined and flickered to life. Leaning forward, he gently blew dust off the keyboard. When the laptop booted, the screen flickered and showed an image of Saint-Germain onstage, surrounded by a dozen instruments. “You have a picture of yourself for your wallpaper?” Josh asked incredulously.

  “It’s one of my favorites,” the musician said.

  Josh nodded toward the screen and then looked around the room. “Can you play all these?”

  “Every one. I started on the violin a long time ago, then moved on to harpsichord and flute. But I’ve kept up with the times, always learning new instruments. In the eighteenth century, I was using the latest technology—the new violins, the latest keyboards—and here I am, nearly three hundred years later, still doing that. This is a great time to be a musician. And with technology, I can finally play all the sounds I hear in my head.” His fingers brushed a keyboard and a full choir sang from the speakers.

  Josh jumped. The voices were so clear that he actually looked over his shoulder.

  “I load up the computer with sound samples, so I can use anything in my work.” Saint-Germain turned back to the screen and his fingers danced on the keys. “Don’t you think those fireworks yesterday morning made some great sounds? Crackling. Snapping. Maybe it’s time for another Fireworks Suite.”

  Josh walked around the room, looking at the framed gold records, the signed posters and CD sleeves. “I didn’t know there was one already,” he said.

  “George Frideric Handel, 1749, Music for the Royal Fireworks. What a night that was! What music!” Saint-Germain’s fingers moved across a keyboard, filling the room with a tune Josh thought sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe he’d heard it on a TV ad. “Good old George,” Saint-Germain said. “I never liked him.”

  “The Witch of Endor doesn’t like you,” Josh said hesitantly. “Why?”

  Saint-Germain grinned. “The Witch doesn’t like anyone. She especially doesn’t like me because I became immortal through my own efforts and, unlike Nicholas and Perry, I don’t need any recipe from a book to remain undying.”

  Josh frowned. “You mean there are different types of immortality?”

  “Many different types, and as many different types of immortals. The most dangerous are those who became immortal because of their loyalty to an Elder. If they fall from favor with the Elder, the gift is rescinded, of course.” He snapped his fingers and Josh jumped. “The result is instant old age. Ancient age. It’s a great way of ensuring loyalty.” He turned back to the keyboard and his fingers drew a haunting breathy sound from the speakers. He looked up as Josh joined him in front of the screen. “But the real reason the Witch of Endor doesn’t like me is because I—an ordinary mortal—became the Master of Fire.” He held up his left hand and a different-colored flame danced at the tip of each finger. The attic studio suddenly smelled of burnt leaves.

  “And why would that bother her?” Josh asked, staring entranced at the dancing flames. He wanted—desperately wanted—to be able to do something like that.

  “Maybe because I learned the secret of fire from her brother.” The music changed, becoming discordant and harsh. “Well, when I say learned, I should really say stole.”

  “You stole the secret of fire!” Josh said.

  The Comte de Saint-Germain nodded happily. “From Prometheus.”

  “And one of these days my uncle will want it back.” Scathach’s voice made them both jump. Neither had heard her enter the room. “Nicholas is here,” she said, and turned away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Nicholas Flamel was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a steaming mug of soup. In front of him was a half-empty bottle of Perrier, a tall glass and a plate piled high with thick-crust bread and cheese. He looked up, nodded and smiled as Josh and Saint-Germain followed Scathach into the room.

  Sophie was sitting on one side of the table, facing Joan of Arc, and Josh quickly slid into the seat beside his sister while Saint-Germain took the seat alongside his wife. Only Scathach remained standing, leaning against the sink behind the Alchemyst, staring out into the night. Josh noted that she was still wearing the bandana she had cut from Flamel’s loose black T-shirt.

  Josh turned his attention to the Alchemyst. The man looked exhausted and old, and there seemed to be a dusting of silver in his close-cropped hair that hadn’t been there earlier. His skin was also shockingly pale, emphasizing the bruise-black circles beneath his eyes and the deep lines in his forehead. His clothes were rumpled and speckled with rain, and there was a long muddy streak on the sleeve of the jacket he’d hung off the back of the wooden chair. Water droplets sparkled on the worn leather.

  No one spoke while the Alchemyst finished the soup and then broke off chunks of the cheese and bread. He chewed slowly and methodically, then poured water from the green bottle into the glass and drank in short sips. When he was finished, he wiped his lips on a napkin and allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction. “Thank you.” He nodded to Joan. “That was perfect.”

  “There is a larder full of food, Nicholas,” she said, her gray eyes huge and concerned. “You really should have more than soup, bread and cheese.”

  “It was enough,” he said gently. “Right now I need to rest, and I didn’t want to put a lot of food in my stomach. We shall have a big breakfast in the morning. I’ll even cook it myself.”

  “I didn’t know you could cook,” Saint-Germain said.

  “He can’t,” Scathach muttered.

  “I thought eating cheese late at night gave you nightmares,” Josh said. He glanced at his watch. “It’s close to one in the morning.”

  “Oh, I don’t need cheese to see nightmares. I’ve seen them in the flesh.” Nicholas smiled, though there was no humor in it. “They’re not so scary.” He looked from Josh to Sophie. “You’re safe and well?”

  The twins glanced at one another and nodded.

  “And rested?”

  “They slept all day and most of the night,” Joan said.

  “Good,” Flamel nodded. “You’re going to need all your strength. And I like the clothes.” While Josh was dressed identically to Saint-Germain, Sophie was wearing a heavy white cotton blouse and blue jeans with the ends turned up to reveal ankle-high boots.

  “Joan gave them to me,” Sophie explained.

  “Almost a perfect fit,” the older woman said. “We’ll go through my wardrobe shortly, get you some changes for the rest of your journey.”

  Sophie smiled her thanks.

  Nicholas turned to Saint-Germain. “The fireworks on the Eiffel Tower yesterday: inspired, just inspired.”

  The count bowed. “Thank you, Master,” he said, looking tremendously pleased with himself.

  Joan’s giggle was a low purr. “He’s been looking for an excuse to do something like that for months. You should have seen the display he set off in Hawaii when we were married. We waited until the sun went down; then Francis lit up the sky for nearly an hour. It was so beautiful, though the effort exhausted him for a week,” she added with a grin.

  Two spots of color touched the count’s cheeks and he reached over to squeeze his wife’s hand. “It was worth it to see the look on your face.”

  “You hadn’t mastered fire the last time we met,” Nicholas said slowly. “If I recall, you had some little ability with it, but nothing like the power you demonstrated yesterday. Who trained you?”

  “I spent some time in India, in the lost city of Ophir,” the count responded, glancing quickly at the Alchemyst. “They still remember you there. Did you know they erected a statue to you and Perenelle in the main square?”

  “I didn’t. I promised Perenelle I’d take her back there someday,” Nicholas said wistfully. “But what has that got to do with your mastery of fire?”

  “I met someone there…someo
ne who trained me,” Saint-Germain said enigmatically. “Showed me how to use all the secret knowledge I’d gleaned from Prometheus…”

  “Stolen,” Scathach corrected.

  “Well, he stole it first,” Saint-Germain snapped.

  Flamel’s hand hit the table with enough force to rattle the bottle of water. Only Scathach didn’t jump. “Enough!” he barked, and for an instant, the planes and angles of his face altered, cheekbones suddenly prominent, hinting at the skull beneath the flesh. His almost colorless eyes visibly darkened, turning gray, then brown and finally black. Resting his elbows on the table, he rubbed his face with the palms of both hands and took a deep shuddering breath. There was the faintest hint of mint in the air, but it was a sour bitter odor. “I’m sorry. That was inexcusable. I should not have raised my voice,” he said quietly into the shocked silence that followed. When he took his hands away from his face, his lips moved into a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on the twins’ stunned faces. “You must forgive me. I’m tired now, so tired; I could sleep for a week. Continue, Francis, please. Who trained you?”

  The Comte de Saint-Germain took a breath. “He told me…he said that I was never to speak his name aloud,” he finished in a rush.

  Flamel placed his elbows on the table, wrapped the fingers of both hands together and rested his chin on his knotted fists. He stared at the musician, his face impassive. “Who was it?” he demanded firmly.

  “I gave him my word,” Saint-Germain said miserably. “It was one of the conditions he imposed when he trained me. He said there was a power in words and that certain names set up vibrations both in this world and the Shadowrealms and attracted unwelcome attention.”